


Welcome Home

by WritingintheCandlelight



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, One-Shot, preslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-13 21:57:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/829333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingintheCandlelight/pseuds/WritingintheCandlelight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Derek?” Stiles smiled when the alpha looked back at him silently in question. “Welcome home.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome Home

### Welcome Home

Stiles Stilinski pulled to a stop in front of the old brick building. He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel of his jeep nervously, peering out the windshield briefly before checking the crumbled scrap of paper with the address written on it for the hundredth time that day. He had acquired the address through unscrupulous means, but his intentions had at least been honorable.

It was no secret in this town that Derek Hale was a person of interest. He may not have had a hand in the recent upheaval of murders in the past few months and he may have been exonerated for his accused crimes, but he had still been involved in too many unexplained occurrences to not still be under scrutiny. He had decent size file with only a handful of previous known residences and background information, most of which related to the fire that devastated his family and later the death of his sister.

Stiles had been keeping an eye on that file for months now. He had not done it as an invasion of privacy, but as a way to ensure Derek would have some kind of warning if he was suspect of another crime or something just because he happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time again. It became a habit, every once in a while, just to check on the file. He had it memorized of course, and he was admittedly curious to know more about the surly alpha, but the police seemed to know even less about Derek than he did.

The file had remained unchanged all throughout the summer… at least until a week ago, when a new address of residence was listed.

Stiles had held off doing anything for a full seven days since this discovery, not entirely sure how welcome he would be. He and Derek were not friends in the traditional sense, but Stiles could admit to himself that he cared about the man. They helped each other. It was usually out of mutual need or some other circumstance, and they had their fair share of arguments and disagreements, but it their mutual antagonism aside, they did protect each other when needed. Their relationship—not-friendship?—had been strained since that whole issue with Scott and Gerard had been revealed.

Derek and his pack had vanished into the night since then. Stiles had not heard from any of them, not even Isaac and Erica who he had been on semi-good terms with ever since the night of the rave. He had been keeping an ear to the pavement, and all summer long there had been nothing but radio silence from the entire pack. It was worrying. He had even intentionally sought them all out at one point in July, but Erica and Boyd had not been to their homes in months, he had no idea where Isaac even lived, and the old Hale house and the train depot both had been abandoned.

… This was his first lead on any of their whereabouts.

It was a large industrial building, and slightly rundown on the outside with some old-fashioned brick siding that had crumbled in places, but all of the windows were intact at least. It was located on the edge of town, far away from practically everything, but there seemed to be electricity so it was clearly a vast improvement from the other places the sour wolf had inhabited. It was nice even, to know that Derek was actually _living_ somewhere, rather than squatting because that meant he was _staying_.

Stiles did not plan to examine why, exactly, he felt so strongly about that. He could probably just sum it up to the fact that he was so tired of people leaving him. The thought made him laugh—he actually wanted Derek Hale, the surly werewolf that seemed to enjoy threatening him and pushing him against solid surfaces, to stay in Beacon Hills indefinitely. He was so messed up.

He huffed out a breath and ran a hand through his hair, leaving it a disheveled mess for the umpteenth time before he made his decision. He abandoned his jeep beside the sleek, shiny black car parked out front, and slowly entered the building. The bottom level was… empty. There was no trash anywhere and it appeared as if someone had swept recently, but there was no furniture or signs of anyone else living here. He spotted an old lift midway down the main hall, and though it seemed kind of rickety, it was clearly in working condition.

The old industrial elevator had the metal cross-hatch doors, and Stiles struggled briefly trying to pull them closed. He tensed as the lift groaned to life once he hit the button, bringing his thumb to his mouth to nibble at the skin around his nail nervously. He breathed a sigh of relief when the slow glide to the second level tapered off with a shudder, and quickly removed himself from the steel deathtrap before it could collapse with him inside of it.

Moving forward slowly, Stiles took in the side of the brick walls and exposed pipes with mild curiosity. It was not so much in dire disrepair as the outside would suggest, and it all looked as if it had been cleaned recently, just as the downstairs did. He cleared a section of broken wall cautiously, noting the wide, circular opening had once been whole at one point, and suddenly found himself in a large open area and knew that he had definitely found the right place. He could see several doors along the walls, one that was elevated by a small set of stairs appeared to be another entrance, but none of them were open.

Minimalistic furniture was scattered in various places throughout the room, strategically placed around the support columns and gave the whole place a very lofty feel. It might have seemed dark and dreary if not for the enormous window that took up the majority of the right wall, illuminating the room and making the atmosphere inviting. There was a long steel table with a lamp stationed in front of the window, salvaged chairs and barstools scattered around it and a handful of books strewn about. A velvety blue suede sofa sat against the far wall near the spiral staircase in the corner, the coffee table in front of it a bit beaten up.

It was all… very Derek.

Simple, practical, nothing too extravagant, but somehow just as it should be. Almost everything had a worn, well used look to it… except for the bed. It was a respectable sized bed, not pushed against a wall or anything, but the headboard made it appear deceivingly like another couch from behind. He paused behind it and raised an eyebrow at the metallic gray comforter set and three plush throw pillows. He had never pegged the werewolf as someone to make his bed.

A loud clang resounded throughout the room, and Stiles sucked in a startled breath and quickly began to spin around. He saw a door swing itself shut after having slammed into the wall, but he barely had a second to take that in before he was in motion and suddenly found himself staring at the low hanging light fixture above. His back was pressed into the bed, a strong forearm pressed dangerously tight over his throat, held immobile by the warm, solid, unmovable mass on top of him.

For a moment all Stiles could do was stare up at the dark and angry red eyes glaring down at him, struggling to breathe as his windpipe was all but crushed, heart thumping away wildly within his chest out of fright. He knew the moment the other realized who he was, because the arm eased enough to let him draw in a quick, desperate breath, though he did not pull away entirely.

 The red eyes flashed pale green with concern. “Stiles?”

Derek was breathing roughly himself, eyebrows furrowed with just a hint surprise. His face was slightly unreadable as it always was, but Stiles could feel the tension drain out of his body in the way that it eased down against his own, muscles no longer taut with anger and determination. The red glow seeping through Derek’s irises and the inhuman teeth were distinctive enough to make him realize that his initial thoughts of being unwelcome were obviously on point though. His dark hair was shiny and wet, threads clumped together and plastered down over his head in a way that made him seem younger. Small droplets of water clung to his face, skin moist and smelling faintly of pine fragranced soap.

Stiles swallowed nervously, something tightening in his belly with the abrupt realization that he had interrupted Derek in the shower. His chest heaved with the effort to draw oxygen into his lungs, a sense of awkwardness mingling with the stunned surprise at being in such close proximity. He swallowed again, this time for a different reason, and hoped that the other man would not notice how strongly his body reacted. He took a small comfort in the fact that they were both wearing pants otherwise this situation would be just to embarrassing to ever live down.

Offering the baffled werewolf a sheepish smile, Stiles tendered a quiet greeting. “Hello,” he said lamely. He would have offered a wave, but he had one arm trapped between the small of his back and the silky comforter beneath him, and the other pressed tight against his own side slowly going numb from the jean clad kneecap applying pressure to it, all of which presented a problem. He was trapped, and damn it all to hell if that didn’t make his heart jolt.

Derek stared down at him for a moment longer before releasing a harsh breath. “Stiles,” he said, a definite growl behind his voice, but the tone sounded more exasperated than angry. “What are you doing here? How did you even find this place?”

“Well…” Stiles averted his eyes, an excuse already forming on his lips. His breath caught, however, when he realized that Derek was hurt. His shoulder appeared to be shredded beyond repair in an unmistakable pattern of claws. It was somewhat clotted, but there were still a few rivulets of blood staining the otherwise clean flesh. There was a deeper wound in the center of his chest, something round and awful that appeared to be made from some sort of cylindrical object. “What the hell happened?” he breathed out in horror. “Why aren’t you healing?”

Heaving another breath, the alpha werewolf finally pushed away and stood. Stiles momentarily mourned the loss of the warm heat that had blanketed him, but pushed the thought down ruthlessly as he hurried to stand and inspect the wounds closer. His fingertips fleetingly brushed along the edge of the torn flesh and his stomach churned as he realized just how painful the injuries must be for Derek to actually flinch away from his touch. He stared up at him in concern, hand dropping reluctantly.

Derek stared down at the wounds himself for a second and then ran his fingers through his hair, the wet tresses standing up in disarray from the action. “This one is healing fine,” he said tersely, briefly gesturing to the rounded one on his chest. “It was a pipe…” He grimaced in pain as he took in a deep breath, but his expression cleared up quickly. “The other one was from an alpha. It will take a while longer to heal.”

“… Do you have a first aid kit?” Stiles asked before he could help himself, biting down on his bottom lip when he realized that Derek probably did not, in fact, have one considering he usually healed in milliseconds. He was surprised to see the other man nod though. He watched curiously as Derek moved walked over to a small metal cabinet against one wall, but was startled to see a matching round wound in the center of his back. The pipe had gone all the way through…? His voice was hoarse when he spoke again in an attempt to distract himself from the grim sight. “Why do you have a first aid kit?”

Derek only stared at him. “Why do you think?” He rolled his eyes and took a seat on the sofa, the small plastic box thrown carelessly on the coffee table in front of him. He rifled through it quickly, extracting rubbing alcohol and cotton balls. Stiles made a noise in the back of his throat as it became apparent that the sour wolf intended to clean it all himself, and the man paused and looked up with a raised eyebrow. “You’re not going to faint, are you?”

“… I do not faint at the sight of blood!” Stiles said earnestly, only just stopping himself from stomping his foot in childish indignation. He marched over quickly and snatched the items up, plopping himself right beside the man on the surprisingly comfortable couch. “Hold still, asshole…”

Stiles soaked one cotton ball with the alcohol and dabbed it around the edge of the wound as gently as he could. His hand paused as he felt the growl reverberate throughout the room, and when he glanced up Derek was struggling to reign himself back and not quite succeeding. His eyes flickered back and forth between red and pale green, and his canines had lengthened and were clenched together.

“You want to tell me what happened?” he asked mildly, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he continued with his task. He could see what Derek meant about the large wound on his chest—it was already healing. The edges were turning pink as the skin began knitting itself together, the horrid expanse of scabs in the beginning stages of becoming flesh again. He wasn’t sure how long it would take, but he decided to ignore that one for now since it was healing on its own and worked on the shoulder instead.

“… There is a pack of alphas in town.”

Stiles swallowed uneasily, frowning as he tried to process the words. “A _pack_ of alphas?” he asked, inwardly hoping that he had just misheard that little tidbit. One alpha had been a nightmare to deal with. How many did a pack constitute? “How many of them are there?”

Derek shook his head. “Enough.”

The werewolf roared unexpectedly as the rubbing alcohol was pressed a particularly deep spot, his entire face transforming as he jolted forward. His teeth made a gnashing sound as he ground them together in an obvious effort not to lash out, and his claws were balled up into tight fists atop his thighs. He released a hoarse, painful breath, his eyes falling shut to hide the red glare.

“Sorry,” Stiles uttered timidly, uncertain how to proceed without causing more pain. He stared at the shoulder wound, willing it to heal because the sound of Derek crying out like that was difficult to listen to, but the shredded skin remained torn and blood barely even coagulated. He gnawed on the inside of his cheek for a moment before an idea struck him.

Ever since he was a child he had been clumsy.

Even now Stiles still had his fair share of humiliating mishaps. He ran into things often enough and always somehow managed to trip over his own two feet, but it had been even worse when he was younger. He would come home from school with bruises and scraped knees, and his mother would take care of him. She would lean in close enough that he could see every slight variation in her eyes, and she would alternate between nuzzling his nose and blowing softly on whatever cut he had. Her technique had never failed to distract him from the pain.

Stiles did not take a moment to contemplate the idea before he leaned in close. He heard a slight intake of breath, watching as Derek snapped his eyes open in disbelief. They stared at each other for one long moment, and their noses not quite touching but within reach. He reached out gently to press one hand against the uninjured shoulder, while the other one gently brushed the cotton ball over the worst of the claw marks. He bent his neck briefly, only to blow against the sting of the rubbing alcohol when the other man winced.

Derek grew absolutely still as this went on. His eyes had finally settled to their normal shade, and his breathing had evened out. His own hands were pressed flat against the tops of his thighs as he stared ahead with a carefully guarded expression. There was confusion apparent though, evident in the way watched Stiles work methodically through each cut, pausing only to blow or brush the tips of their noses together.

Neither of them spoke as Stiles went about applying squares of gauze and medical tape, but then again, Stiles was not sure what he could say at this point. He finally settled on keeping to the problem at hand, instead of defending his actions. “There,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant and failing miserably. He pulled his hands away and slid backwards, busying himself with separating the trash with the medical supplies. He avoided his eyes as he closed up the first aid kit and hastily rose to his feet. “I should…”

Stiles fell silent as Derek stood, staring at him with an undecipherable expression. “Why did you come here Stiles?” the werewolf asked, his voice demanding even though it was soft.

“… I was worried.” He decided to admit to it, because he honestly had been worried for months now. He was worried about all of them. “Since that night...” He expelled a frustrated breath and ran a hand over the back of his neck. “No one has been around. The last time I saw Boyd and Erica, they were strung up in the Argent’s basement, you and Isaac just vanished, and even Scott has barely said two words to me, but he’s having trouble with summer school—”

“Wait,” Derek interrupted, his face growing dark. “The Argents have Boyd and Erica? That’s where they’ve been all this time?”

Stiles sighed. “They had them four months ago. Which you would have known if anyone bothered to listen to me when I mentioned it once Jackson ended his murderous rampage after that Disney moment with Lydia…” He was not bitter. Not in the slightest. “I think Scott would have said something if they were still there though. He and Allison went to her house to talk at one point…”

“How did you know that they were there?”

Stiles felt oddly hurt by the question. He tried to ignore the tight feeling in his chest, but it was difficult not to be disappointed. It was one thing to know that his friends had not mentioned how badly he had been hurt during the confrontation in March; it was one thing to know that with the exception of his father no one had even asked him if he was okay after spending six hours being beaten and interrogated by Gerard Argent.

It was another thing entirely to realize that no one had even noticed.

“... Forget it,” he breathed out abruptly, shaking his head. Why did he even bother? He ruined what was left of his quiet vacation just by coming here, and the last thing he wanted to do was rehash old wounds. His body had healed. Not as quickly as he would have hoped, but they were finally gone. He was not going to relive that time of his life just to satisfy the curiosity of someone who didn’t even care when it had first happened. “I have to go. Sorry I bothered you.”

Derek grabbed him by the elbow when he made for the rickety elevator. “Stiles…”

“What?” he demanded, stumbling away after roughly yanking his arm free. He sighed in impotent frustration and pursed his lips. He asked again, more softly this time, “What?”

Derek regarded him silently, his gaze searching. His eyes averted a second later, and he motioned toward the bandage on his shoulder. “… Thank you.” he said quietly.

Momentarily taken aback, Stiles smiled reluctantly. He and Derek had been through some tough shit together throughout the past year. Magic bullets laced with wolfsbane, a paralytic toxin keeping them treading eight feet of water for two hours… and not once had Derek ever offered praise or gratitude before now on something as so insignificant as applying a band-aid.

Stiles shrugged it off, though it was impossible to mask how pleased he was. “No problem…” he said. “How long will it take to heal?”

“Maybe a few days,” Derek admitted. “Any longer than that means something is wrong, and I would probably have to go to Deaton at that point.”

“Do you want me to check on you in a few days?” Stiles asked. “Just to make sure that if something is wrong, and you end up passed out on the floor after spewing black sludge again, that someone can actually take you to the vet?” He tried not to snort at the idea of a veterinarian taking care of werewolves, but it was just too funny. “I promise not to let him neuter you in your sleep.”

Derek glared at him, but answered honestly. “Come back tomorrow,” he told him. “We can talk more then.” He offered no more explanation than that. “Be careful though. The alphas might be lurking around somewhere. Warn Scott about them too.”

“Gotcha,” Stiles smiled, already walking back around the bed and toward the elevator. “I’ll bring him with me and we’ll make a pack meeting out of it. I’ll even bring snacks!”

“No.”

Stiles paused near the broken wall. “No?”

“… Scott is not pack.” Derek said evenly, his voice leaving no room for argument. “He said as much himself the last time I saw him. This is my home and he is not welcome here.”

Stiles had overheard that conversation. He could even remember just how upset Scott had made Derek by rejecting him, so he understood where the alpha was coming from. Stiles was actually a bit surprised that Derek told him to return because of that, but if Scott was unwelcome because he was not pack… what did that make Stiles?

“Okay,” Stiles nodded seriously. “I won’t mention anything to him. Do you still want me to bring snacks?” he asked, grinning when his question earned him a look of surprise. “I make a mean batch of chocolate chip cookies. It can be like a house warming gift… I’ll even add it extra chocolate chips. Besides, feeding you half will at least keep my dad from eating them all himself. He so does _not_ need that much sugar.”

“Chocolate chip?” Derek repeated with a curious note in his voice. “You bake?”

“Damn right I bake,” Stiles smirked. “See you tomorrow?”

Derek nodded slowly. “Tomorrow,” he agreed. “And Stiles?” He pointed to the wall opposite of the window, the one with the large elevated door sitting above three small steps. “The stairs are right through there.”

“Oh thank God!” Stiles breathed out. “Thought that deathtrap might collapse with me inside of it if I got in it again.” He walked briskly toward the door, pausing once he heaved it open. He glanced back just as the other man put the first aid kit away. “Derek?” Stiles smiled when the alpha looked back at him silently in question. “Welcome home.”

Derek rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched. “Goodbye Stiles.”

**Author's Note:**

> One hour until the premiere! My sister and I spent the past week watching all of the previous episodes, and we are now sufficiently ready to get our Teen Wolf on. Is everyone else as psyched as I am?
> 
> This one-shot is based off of [this](http://www.mtv.com/videos/misc/910969/teen-wolf-season-3-dereks-loft.jhtml#series=2215&seriesId=31789&channelId=1&id=1707888) video of Derek’s loft, and [this](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PT7IvOSWFCU) one of Kali attacking Derek there. It is just mindless speculation and a bit of fun to calm my anxious nerves. That clip might not even be of the first episode, but I kept picturing Stiles being the first to visit the loft and… well, I spend all afternoon writing this. Hope you liked it!


End file.
